The House Song
Jan. 8th, 2016 05:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dedalus_1947This house goes on sale every Wednesday morning,
And taken off the market in the afternoon.
You can buy a piece of it if you want to.
It’s been good to me, if it’s been good for you.
Take the grand look now the fire is burning.
Is that your reflection on the wall?
I can show you this room and some others,
If you came to see the house at all?
Careful up the stairs, a few are missing.
I haven’t had the time to make repairs.
First step is the hardest one to master.
Last one I’m not really sure is there.
This room here once had childish laughter,
And I come back to hear it now and again.
I can’t say that I’m certain what you’re after,
But in this room, a part of you will remain.
(The House Song: Paul Stookey – 1965)
Finding a unifying thread about two cross-country flights and a trip through Georgia and South Carolina turned out to be a daunting task. The seven days we spent there were a flurry of emotions, images, and experiences: the miseries of TSA checkpoints; the discomforts of minimalist air travel; the excitement of a new city and state with endless sights and possibilities; and the ease of renewing old friendships. It seemed a matter of too much done and too little space to record it all. In brief, Kathy and I traveled to Atlanta, so she could attend the Catholic Leadership Summit hosted by the National Catholic Education Association (NCEA). We spent 3 days in that city, with Kathy, for the most part, attending workshops, meetings, and social dinners, while occasionally joining me on sightseeing adventures. At the conclusion of the conference, we rented a car and drove south to Bluffton, SC, to visit for three days with Ken and Kathy Horton, long-time family friends (see tag: Hortons) who had built a home and retired to Belfair Golf Plantation six years ago. We took our time driving back to Atlanta, stopping at Milledgeville and visiting the nearby sights. Early morning, on October 25th, we again experienced the miseries of modern air travel, but thankfully, magically arrived home at 11:00 am, three hours after leaving Atlanta at 9:00 am. That was our trip in one paragraph.
However, the question that has daunted me since returning is, what specific experiences on this trip were the most memorable or meaningful? There were so many scenes I could describe: riding the MARTA metro uptown to the Arts Center and walking down Peachtree Street photographing countless sights and places; taking solitary walks through Centennial Park, the Coca Cola museum, and the National Center for Civil Rights; and visiting the Carter Presidential Library and the Historic Oakland Cemetery with Kathy. Finally, after weeks and weeks of restless reflection and rewrites, I came to the surprising conclusion that what really stood out from the trip were three houses – the Margret Mitchell House on Peachtree Street in Atlanta, the Horton Home on Lady Slipper Island Drive in Bluffton, and Andalusia, the Flannery O’Connor Farm outside of Milledgeville. Three houses, with three separate stories, but all somehow unified in their impact on me. Strange…
To be honest, finding the Mitchell House was purely accidental. My initial explorations of the MARTA (Atlanta’s metro, the Metropolitan Atlanta Rapid Transit Authority) deposited me at the Arts Center Station on N. Peachtree Street. Not wanting to simply make a return trip traveling underground, I decided to walk down Peachtree, paralleling the metro line back to the main hub at Five Points Station. On this southern route, I stumbled across the beautifully maintained, and impressive, Mitchell House near Crescent Avenue. I had read Margret Mitchell’s Pulitzer Prize winning novel in high school, after seeing the film adaptation. At first I was captivated by the Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh version, and naively believed that the movie and the book were authentic representations of the South, the Civil War, and Reconstruction. I was freed from these romantic delusions in college when I learned that both the book and the film perpetuated the heroic myth of the underdog South’s valiant struggle against the tyranny of the Federal government, their rebellion for State’s Rights, and their continued oppression during Reconstruction. Mitchell, and especially the film, failed to deal with the immorality of slavery, the social inequities created by a plantation economy on the South, and the futile war that was fought and lost attempting to perpetuate both. However, despite my college prejudice about the book and movie, I walked away from the house with a totally different feeling about Margret Mitchell and her work.
First of all, calling the residence “the Mitchell House” is a grandiose misnomer. Margret and her second husband, John Marsh, simply rented one of three flats at the Crescent Avenue Apartment House, as it was originally named. It was there, recuperating from an ankle injury, and with the encouragement of her husband, that she typed her only published novel, Gone With the Wind in 1937. The book was clearly a romanticized version of the antebellum South, based on the stories Margaret heard as a child from her grandmother, and from the revisionist histories written by Southern historians after Reconstruction. The book was never meant to be an academically sound, historical treatise, but rather a forerunner of the bodice-ripping, romantic novels that became popular in the late 20th Century. I ended my tour through the converted apartment house with a new attitude toward Mitchell – feeling much more sympathetic toward this writer who grew up in wealth and social prominence, only to flounder in an abusive first marriage which required her to work for a living as a reporter and journalist. Her second act came with her marriage to John Marsh and his encouragement to pen a book based on her childhood memories and college writings. Their stay at the Crescent Avenue Apartment House changed their lives forever.
After three days of hotel rooms and meeting halls, except for a rare sightseeing excursion, Kathy was anxious to get some fresh air and enjoy a respite with Kathy and Ken. She was confident that staying at their beautiful home in Belfair Plantation would provide the perfect opportunity for reconnecting and renewing our 35-year old friendship. So on Wednesday, we left Atlanta in a rented car and drove five hours down US Interstates 75 and 16 through Georgia to Bluffton, South Carolina. We had one objective – getting to the Horton house on Lady Slipper Island Drive as quickly as possible and relaxing. Luckily these two major highways skirt all major cities and towns, so we were not tempted to stop and explore Macon or Savannah. It was just one, long, boring drive along a forest-lined highway, reading signs and staring at road kill, with only two stops at rural gas stations to use the restrooms.
I always think of Kathy and Ken in relation to their houses. We always visited them at home, with the rare exception of birthdays at McDonalds or Chucky Cheese. They would sometimes reciprocate and visit us, but (not counting their annual Christmas Adam Party) 8 times out of 10 we were at their house on a Friday night, with Ken preparing cocktails, grilling burgers and dogs, or cooking spaghetti. Their first home was a rambling two-story, Walton Family-type structure on Hatteras Ave in Tarzana, with a seemingly endless backyard lot with a pool where the kids could lose themselves for hours. Their second, and final California house was a single floor, ranch-style home in Hidden Hills, with a small lower horse pasture and stable, and a backyard that started with a pool and extended up a vast hillside. Those were the homes their children and ours grew up and played in and visited, until they all went to college and left. In 2010, when the Horton’s’ decided to retire, they left the state and took up residence in a new house they had planned and built in South Carolina.
Visiting Kathy and Ken’s home overlooking the marshy lowlands of the Harbor River always calls up feelings of déjà vu, like recalling a vista you’ve seen a long, long time ago, but couldn’t remember exactly where. Only in this case it was trying to remember an image or scene from countless movies in the South: The Great Santini (1979), The Prince of Tides (1991), The Legend of Bagger Vance (2000), and especially The Big Chill (1983). All of them depicted the red and gold coastal marshlands, tidal swamps, and estuaries of the “Low country” of South Carolina, but The Big Chill also inserted the nostalgia of aging college friends in new homes and locales, after the passage of time. That’s how I felt about Kathy and Ken in 2010, on our first visit to South Carolina, and again this time – standing on their back porch and gazing out at the estuary reeds and marshlands of the Harbor River in the mornings, mid-afternoons, and sunsets. We had left so many memories behind, in old homes, in old neighborhoods, but we stayed connected. This sense of comfort is also reinforced when we manage to see their three children, Marshall, and the twins, Kate and Andrea in their homes, in different parts of the country.
During this visit we never strayed too far from Belfair, with amble opportunities for Kathy and Kathy to chat and catch up on their news while Ken and I walked Jake their dog and played some golf. Our one big excursion was an afternoon on the May River, trying our hand at dockside crabbin’ & fishin’ with Kathy and Ken, and then boatin’ with their son Marshall, and his dog, Cody. On this trip I also played a few rounds of golf with Ken. On previous walks and cart rides around his home I’d been impressed by the coastal beauty of the grounds, fairways, and greens of the two courses on this “golf plantation”, but I had never felt sufficiently skilled to play on them. Now, after 5 years of golfing with friends on various public and private courses in Southern California and Baja, I felt confident enough to join Kenny for 9 or 10 holes. It was an enjoyable experience, with a lot of side talk and Ken pointing out some techniques to strengthen my “short game”. I also got a chance to demonstrate my golfing prowess to my wife, who had never seen me play.
Every evening of our 3-night stay found us lounging on the back porch of the house at sunset, watching the reddish-gold gloaming of the sky over the river and marshes, enjoying Kenny’s cocktails. There we would review the day’s events and activities, plan the next day’s agenda, and talk about our adult children, their spouses, and infants. That’s how I will always remember Belfair – sitting with the Horton’s on their back porch couches, with the sun fading into a golden haze. On Friday we drove back to Atlanta. This was an open-ended excursion, with our only intention being to take a route that would lead us to Milledgeville. We were in no particular hurry and had no idea what we might find there. Our only reason for choosing Milledgeville was curiosity to see the town and the nearby family farm where the American, female author, Flannery O’Connor lived until her death in 1964.
The route we took from Savannah on US Hwy 441 finally got us off the Interstate and allowed us to see the real Georgian countryside, with its rolling, green farmlands, red clay soil, and rural towns. The big surprise was the city of Milledgeville. I had expected to see one more provincial town like the ones we’d passed along the way (Dublin, Irwinton, McIntyre, and Midway-Hardwick), but Milledgeville was far from rural. It is the county seat of Baldwin County, with two colleges and a population of about 20,000. It served as the State Capitol from 1804 to 1868, and came across as a quaint, historic “college town”, with all the cultural and commercial amenities of a modern city. On our arrival on October 24, we drove right into the Main Square, which was hosting Family Day at Georgia College and State University, the college Flannery O’Connor attended under a different name. The streets were filled with cars, families, and visitors, walking through and around the square, being escorted or guided by students or family members. It created a festive carnival atmosphere that livened our experience as we walked around, searching for “The Flannery O’Connor Room” in the College Library.
I became curious about Flannery O’Connor after listening to Kathy and our friend Bishop George Niederauer talking about her in relation to women authors and Catholic themes in American literature. Kathy had read O’Connor’s works in college, while taking a course in Catholic literature, and George had taught a similar class at St. John’s Seminary in Camarillo. Knowing nothing of this modern Southern writer, who was also a devout Catholic, I set about reading Kathy’s copy of Flannery: A Life of Flannery O’Connor, by Brad Gooch. It was a fascinating story of a seemingly mousey, non-descript Georgia girl, of Irish-Catholic upbringing, born in 1925, who graduated from a women’s college in Milledgeville, but whose desire to write compelled her to travel to the famous Iowa Writer’s Workshop for a MFA, where she attracted the artistic attention of its director and teachers. After graduation she lived in Connecticut and New York, where she published her first short stories and began the first of two novels, Wise Blood. In 1951, O’Connor was diagnosed with lupus, a deadly, debilitating disease, and subsequently returned to live with her mother at their ancestral farm, Andalusia, near Milledgeville, Georgia.
Escaping the hustle and bustle of Family Days, Andalusia, the O’Connor family dairy farm, was a retreat-like haven. Only 4 miles outside of Milledgeville on Hwy 441, the farm appears suddenly and unexpectedly, near a distractingly, busy commercial intersection. The only warning is a reed obscured white sign with purple trim on a hillside, announcing:
Andalusia
HOME OF
Flannery O’Connor
A red clay road, shaded by pine trees, wound us along a low-lying pond and a distant pasture, until we saw two white, wooden lounge chairs, under a tree, beckoning us toward a driveway next to the main house. Around the two-story, plantation-style home, we could see the vacant poultry and work sheds off to the left, and the abandoned milking and storage barns, beyond the backyard. This farm and nearby Milledgeville were the settings for many of O’Connor’s short stories. More than the Mitchell House, I was deeply affected by the tour through O’Connor’s home. It seemed to truly reflect the writer who lived and died there. The front porch was screened and overlooked the front yard, with its two lounge chairs guarding the road. I easily imagined a frail and weakening writer, having experienced the artistic and literary excitement of the Iowa Workshop and the New York publishing world, sitting in the waning sun with her mother, staring out at the empty road, searching for visitors and news from the world outside of Georgia.
Her brightly lit bedroom was on the first floor, close to the front door entrance. There, I spotted two braced, aluminum crutches, leaning side by side, as if placed just moments ago. They rested against an upright dresser, which served as a backstop to O’Connor’s worktable, holding an opened portable typewriter. It was a reminder of what must have been a 14-year struggle between artist and invalid, with her passion for writing being challenged by her progressively deteriorating and disabling disease. Despite the declining health, she stayed busy with her work and around the house, leaving feminine touches in many of the rooms and walls. She continued writing throughout her residence there, and maintained an active correspondence with contemporary writers and teachers until her death on August 3, 1964. O’Connor, who published two novels and 32 short stories during her lifetime, is now considered an important voice in American literature. She wrote in a Southern Gothic style, relying heavily on regional settings and grotesque characters, while reflecting her Catholic faith, and frequently examining questions of morality and ethics. Although expected to live only five years after her initial diagnosis of lupus, she managed 14, and died at the age of 39.
Our travels through South Carolina and Georgia ended at an airport hotel, a tram-ride away from the terminal in Atlanta. We took our time that evening at dinner, and talked about the trip, our visit with the Horton’s, and our impressions of Andalusia and Milledgeville. Later, back in our room, we fell asleep watching television and dreaming of a quick flight home.
Is it truly strange that after so many miles and so many new sights and locales, I should be most affected by three houses? Houses are the silent sentinels of our memories and lives. I feel that connection whenever I drive past our first house on Yarmouth Avenue, or visit my mom’s home in Venice. Those structures contain years and years of emotions and experiences, with their hidden stories of happiness, sadness, fears, and triumphs. I think it was our visit to Bluffton that set the tone for the trip. Visiting Kathy and Ken was the central event of our travels, and it influenced all our perceptions. It’s comforting to know that we can travel 2400 miles to a house in South Carolina and still feel like home.
And taken off the market in the afternoon.
You can buy a piece of it if you want to.
It’s been good to me, if it’s been good for you.
Take the grand look now the fire is burning.
Is that your reflection on the wall?
I can show you this room and some others,
If you came to see the house at all?
Careful up the stairs, a few are missing.
I haven’t had the time to make repairs.
First step is the hardest one to master.
Last one I’m not really sure is there.
This room here once had childish laughter,
And I come back to hear it now and again.
I can’t say that I’m certain what you’re after,
But in this room, a part of you will remain.
(The House Song: Paul Stookey – 1965)
Finding a unifying thread about two cross-country flights and a trip through Georgia and South Carolina turned out to be a daunting task. The seven days we spent there were a flurry of emotions, images, and experiences: the miseries of TSA checkpoints; the discomforts of minimalist air travel; the excitement of a new city and state with endless sights and possibilities; and the ease of renewing old friendships. It seemed a matter of too much done and too little space to record it all. In brief, Kathy and I traveled to Atlanta, so she could attend the Catholic Leadership Summit hosted by the National Catholic Education Association (NCEA). We spent 3 days in that city, with Kathy, for the most part, attending workshops, meetings, and social dinners, while occasionally joining me on sightseeing adventures. At the conclusion of the conference, we rented a car and drove south to Bluffton, SC, to visit for three days with Ken and Kathy Horton, long-time family friends (see tag: Hortons) who had built a home and retired to Belfair Golf Plantation six years ago. We took our time driving back to Atlanta, stopping at Milledgeville and visiting the nearby sights. Early morning, on October 25th, we again experienced the miseries of modern air travel, but thankfully, magically arrived home at 11:00 am, three hours after leaving Atlanta at 9:00 am. That was our trip in one paragraph.
However, the question that has daunted me since returning is, what specific experiences on this trip were the most memorable or meaningful? There were so many scenes I could describe: riding the MARTA metro uptown to the Arts Center and walking down Peachtree Street photographing countless sights and places; taking solitary walks through Centennial Park, the Coca Cola museum, and the National Center for Civil Rights; and visiting the Carter Presidential Library and the Historic Oakland Cemetery with Kathy. Finally, after weeks and weeks of restless reflection and rewrites, I came to the surprising conclusion that what really stood out from the trip were three houses – the Margret Mitchell House on Peachtree Street in Atlanta, the Horton Home on Lady Slipper Island Drive in Bluffton, and Andalusia, the Flannery O’Connor Farm outside of Milledgeville. Three houses, with three separate stories, but all somehow unified in their impact on me. Strange…
To be honest, finding the Mitchell House was purely accidental. My initial explorations of the MARTA (Atlanta’s metro, the Metropolitan Atlanta Rapid Transit Authority) deposited me at the Arts Center Station on N. Peachtree Street. Not wanting to simply make a return trip traveling underground, I decided to walk down Peachtree, paralleling the metro line back to the main hub at Five Points Station. On this southern route, I stumbled across the beautifully maintained, and impressive, Mitchell House near Crescent Avenue. I had read Margret Mitchell’s Pulitzer Prize winning novel in high school, after seeing the film adaptation. At first I was captivated by the Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh version, and naively believed that the movie and the book were authentic representations of the South, the Civil War, and Reconstruction. I was freed from these romantic delusions in college when I learned that both the book and the film perpetuated the heroic myth of the underdog South’s valiant struggle against the tyranny of the Federal government, their rebellion for State’s Rights, and their continued oppression during Reconstruction. Mitchell, and especially the film, failed to deal with the immorality of slavery, the social inequities created by a plantation economy on the South, and the futile war that was fought and lost attempting to perpetuate both. However, despite my college prejudice about the book and movie, I walked away from the house with a totally different feeling about Margret Mitchell and her work.
First of all, calling the residence “the Mitchell House” is a grandiose misnomer. Margret and her second husband, John Marsh, simply rented one of three flats at the Crescent Avenue Apartment House, as it was originally named. It was there, recuperating from an ankle injury, and with the encouragement of her husband, that she typed her only published novel, Gone With the Wind in 1937. The book was clearly a romanticized version of the antebellum South, based on the stories Margaret heard as a child from her grandmother, and from the revisionist histories written by Southern historians after Reconstruction. The book was never meant to be an academically sound, historical treatise, but rather a forerunner of the bodice-ripping, romantic novels that became popular in the late 20th Century. I ended my tour through the converted apartment house with a new attitude toward Mitchell – feeling much more sympathetic toward this writer who grew up in wealth and social prominence, only to flounder in an abusive first marriage which required her to work for a living as a reporter and journalist. Her second act came with her marriage to John Marsh and his encouragement to pen a book based on her childhood memories and college writings. Their stay at the Crescent Avenue Apartment House changed their lives forever.
After three days of hotel rooms and meeting halls, except for a rare sightseeing excursion, Kathy was anxious to get some fresh air and enjoy a respite with Kathy and Ken. She was confident that staying at their beautiful home in Belfair Plantation would provide the perfect opportunity for reconnecting and renewing our 35-year old friendship. So on Wednesday, we left Atlanta in a rented car and drove five hours down US Interstates 75 and 16 through Georgia to Bluffton, South Carolina. We had one objective – getting to the Horton house on Lady Slipper Island Drive as quickly as possible and relaxing. Luckily these two major highways skirt all major cities and towns, so we were not tempted to stop and explore Macon or Savannah. It was just one, long, boring drive along a forest-lined highway, reading signs and staring at road kill, with only two stops at rural gas stations to use the restrooms.
I always think of Kathy and Ken in relation to their houses. We always visited them at home, with the rare exception of birthdays at McDonalds or Chucky Cheese. They would sometimes reciprocate and visit us, but (not counting their annual Christmas Adam Party) 8 times out of 10 we were at their house on a Friday night, with Ken preparing cocktails, grilling burgers and dogs, or cooking spaghetti. Their first home was a rambling two-story, Walton Family-type structure on Hatteras Ave in Tarzana, with a seemingly endless backyard lot with a pool where the kids could lose themselves for hours. Their second, and final California house was a single floor, ranch-style home in Hidden Hills, with a small lower horse pasture and stable, and a backyard that started with a pool and extended up a vast hillside. Those were the homes their children and ours grew up and played in and visited, until they all went to college and left. In 2010, when the Horton’s’ decided to retire, they left the state and took up residence in a new house they had planned and built in South Carolina.
Visiting Kathy and Ken’s home overlooking the marshy lowlands of the Harbor River always calls up feelings of déjà vu, like recalling a vista you’ve seen a long, long time ago, but couldn’t remember exactly where. Only in this case it was trying to remember an image or scene from countless movies in the South: The Great Santini (1979), The Prince of Tides (1991), The Legend of Bagger Vance (2000), and especially The Big Chill (1983). All of them depicted the red and gold coastal marshlands, tidal swamps, and estuaries of the “Low country” of South Carolina, but The Big Chill also inserted the nostalgia of aging college friends in new homes and locales, after the passage of time. That’s how I felt about Kathy and Ken in 2010, on our first visit to South Carolina, and again this time – standing on their back porch and gazing out at the estuary reeds and marshlands of the Harbor River in the mornings, mid-afternoons, and sunsets. We had left so many memories behind, in old homes, in old neighborhoods, but we stayed connected. This sense of comfort is also reinforced when we manage to see their three children, Marshall, and the twins, Kate and Andrea in their homes, in different parts of the country.
During this visit we never strayed too far from Belfair, with amble opportunities for Kathy and Kathy to chat and catch up on their news while Ken and I walked Jake their dog and played some golf. Our one big excursion was an afternoon on the May River, trying our hand at dockside crabbin’ & fishin’ with Kathy and Ken, and then boatin’ with their son Marshall, and his dog, Cody. On this trip I also played a few rounds of golf with Ken. On previous walks and cart rides around his home I’d been impressed by the coastal beauty of the grounds, fairways, and greens of the two courses on this “golf plantation”, but I had never felt sufficiently skilled to play on them. Now, after 5 years of golfing with friends on various public and private courses in Southern California and Baja, I felt confident enough to join Kenny for 9 or 10 holes. It was an enjoyable experience, with a lot of side talk and Ken pointing out some techniques to strengthen my “short game”. I also got a chance to demonstrate my golfing prowess to my wife, who had never seen me play.
Every evening of our 3-night stay found us lounging on the back porch of the house at sunset, watching the reddish-gold gloaming of the sky over the river and marshes, enjoying Kenny’s cocktails. There we would review the day’s events and activities, plan the next day’s agenda, and talk about our adult children, their spouses, and infants. That’s how I will always remember Belfair – sitting with the Horton’s on their back porch couches, with the sun fading into a golden haze. On Friday we drove back to Atlanta. This was an open-ended excursion, with our only intention being to take a route that would lead us to Milledgeville. We were in no particular hurry and had no idea what we might find there. Our only reason for choosing Milledgeville was curiosity to see the town and the nearby family farm where the American, female author, Flannery O’Connor lived until her death in 1964.
The route we took from Savannah on US Hwy 441 finally got us off the Interstate and allowed us to see the real Georgian countryside, with its rolling, green farmlands, red clay soil, and rural towns. The big surprise was the city of Milledgeville. I had expected to see one more provincial town like the ones we’d passed along the way (Dublin, Irwinton, McIntyre, and Midway-Hardwick), but Milledgeville was far from rural. It is the county seat of Baldwin County, with two colleges and a population of about 20,000. It served as the State Capitol from 1804 to 1868, and came across as a quaint, historic “college town”, with all the cultural and commercial amenities of a modern city. On our arrival on October 24, we drove right into the Main Square, which was hosting Family Day at Georgia College and State University, the college Flannery O’Connor attended under a different name. The streets were filled with cars, families, and visitors, walking through and around the square, being escorted or guided by students or family members. It created a festive carnival atmosphere that livened our experience as we walked around, searching for “The Flannery O’Connor Room” in the College Library.
I became curious about Flannery O’Connor after listening to Kathy and our friend Bishop George Niederauer talking about her in relation to women authors and Catholic themes in American literature. Kathy had read O’Connor’s works in college, while taking a course in Catholic literature, and George had taught a similar class at St. John’s Seminary in Camarillo. Knowing nothing of this modern Southern writer, who was also a devout Catholic, I set about reading Kathy’s copy of Flannery: A Life of Flannery O’Connor, by Brad Gooch. It was a fascinating story of a seemingly mousey, non-descript Georgia girl, of Irish-Catholic upbringing, born in 1925, who graduated from a women’s college in Milledgeville, but whose desire to write compelled her to travel to the famous Iowa Writer’s Workshop for a MFA, where she attracted the artistic attention of its director and teachers. After graduation she lived in Connecticut and New York, where she published her first short stories and began the first of two novels, Wise Blood. In 1951, O’Connor was diagnosed with lupus, a deadly, debilitating disease, and subsequently returned to live with her mother at their ancestral farm, Andalusia, near Milledgeville, Georgia.
Escaping the hustle and bustle of Family Days, Andalusia, the O’Connor family dairy farm, was a retreat-like haven. Only 4 miles outside of Milledgeville on Hwy 441, the farm appears suddenly and unexpectedly, near a distractingly, busy commercial intersection. The only warning is a reed obscured white sign with purple trim on a hillside, announcing:
Andalusia
HOME OF
Flannery O’Connor
A red clay road, shaded by pine trees, wound us along a low-lying pond and a distant pasture, until we saw two white, wooden lounge chairs, under a tree, beckoning us toward a driveway next to the main house. Around the two-story, plantation-style home, we could see the vacant poultry and work sheds off to the left, and the abandoned milking and storage barns, beyond the backyard. This farm and nearby Milledgeville were the settings for many of O’Connor’s short stories. More than the Mitchell House, I was deeply affected by the tour through O’Connor’s home. It seemed to truly reflect the writer who lived and died there. The front porch was screened and overlooked the front yard, with its two lounge chairs guarding the road. I easily imagined a frail and weakening writer, having experienced the artistic and literary excitement of the Iowa Workshop and the New York publishing world, sitting in the waning sun with her mother, staring out at the empty road, searching for visitors and news from the world outside of Georgia.
Her brightly lit bedroom was on the first floor, close to the front door entrance. There, I spotted two braced, aluminum crutches, leaning side by side, as if placed just moments ago. They rested against an upright dresser, which served as a backstop to O’Connor’s worktable, holding an opened portable typewriter. It was a reminder of what must have been a 14-year struggle between artist and invalid, with her passion for writing being challenged by her progressively deteriorating and disabling disease. Despite the declining health, she stayed busy with her work and around the house, leaving feminine touches in many of the rooms and walls. She continued writing throughout her residence there, and maintained an active correspondence with contemporary writers and teachers until her death on August 3, 1964. O’Connor, who published two novels and 32 short stories during her lifetime, is now considered an important voice in American literature. She wrote in a Southern Gothic style, relying heavily on regional settings and grotesque characters, while reflecting her Catholic faith, and frequently examining questions of morality and ethics. Although expected to live only five years after her initial diagnosis of lupus, she managed 14, and died at the age of 39.
Our travels through South Carolina and Georgia ended at an airport hotel, a tram-ride away from the terminal in Atlanta. We took our time that evening at dinner, and talked about the trip, our visit with the Horton’s, and our impressions of Andalusia and Milledgeville. Later, back in our room, we fell asleep watching television and dreaming of a quick flight home.
Is it truly strange that after so many miles and so many new sights and locales, I should be most affected by three houses? Houses are the silent sentinels of our memories and lives. I feel that connection whenever I drive past our first house on Yarmouth Avenue, or visit my mom’s home in Venice. Those structures contain years and years of emotions and experiences, with their hidden stories of happiness, sadness, fears, and triumphs. I think it was our visit to Bluffton that set the tone for the trip. Visiting Kathy and Ken was the central event of our travels, and it influenced all our perceptions. It’s comforting to know that we can travel 2400 miles to a house in South Carolina and still feel like home.
